Arkarian: The Beginning
by Itsygo
Summary: Arkarian's childhood. I do plan on finishing it. Eventually.
1. Chapter I

**Disclaimer: I don't own Arkarian, The Guardians of Time, or Marianne Curley.**

The rain beat heavily against the awkwardly set wooden shutters, the wind throwing them against the stone wall.

"Adriene!" a harsh voice called out to the tall blonde boy trying to dry himself by the hearth. "Go outside and fix that thing. The rain is coming in."

Knowing any argument with his mother would be completely futile, the boy stomped outside, slamming the door behind him. "It's broken," he yelled through the window. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Fix it, of course. What kind of a stupid question is that? Does that idiot Florentin not teach you anything?"

"Florentin is a merchant, not a carpenter," the boy replied irritably, beginning to shiver in the cold. A bolt of light pierced the sky to his left, illuminating a sodden bundle that should have not been there. Paying no attention to his mother's fulminations, he cautiously walked over to where he decided the object should have been, and reached out with a wet hand. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, his numb fingertips brushed something smooth and warm, something that could have only been another person.

Quickly, ignoring his mother's voluble assessment of his indolence and ineptitude, Adriene kicked the wooden door open, and carried the foundling into his home.

"What are you doing? Adriene?"

The boy laid the child in front of the fire, stripping him of his drenched, muddy clothes. A pale face came into view, framed by wet strands of fair hair. He appeared unconscious. Adriene's mother, finally silent, kneeled next to him, feeling his forehead. It was burning with fever. She told her son to fetch a blanket while she herself proceeded to peel the child's soaked clothes off his frail body. Gently, frowning at the livid bruises covering the thin, waxen arms, the woman pulled off the child's stained and frayed undershirt. Her son stopped short, a woolen blanket and a clean, coarse rag in his hand, staring at the swollen skin surrounding an angry red gash on the child's skinny chest. Without saying a word, he dried the boy and wrapped him up in the blanket, thrusting the rag out of the window and, once sufficiently wet, folding it over the child's febrile forehead.

"How can someone do that to a child?" he hissed at his mother, pacing the room.

She sighed. "It's a cruel, chaotic world."


	2. Chapter II

The fever raged for a day, and then abated into headache and sweat. The child regained his consciousness feeling cold and clammy, his bloodshot blue eyes blinking confusedly at the unfamiliar surroundings. For a split second, he felt a surge of panic, knowing that his lethargy was sure to be punished, but remembering that he was not home, he relaxed, unclenching his tiny fists.

The tall, sturdy woman he saw doing the housework noticed he was awake and came over to his side with a steaming metal mug. "Chicken soup broth," she told him encouragingly. He took the container with weak hands, wincing at its hotness, and the woman quickly retrieved it. She held it up to his lips, pinker than normal from irritation, and he took a tentative sip, forcing the liquid down his sore throat.

"Do you feel better?" she asked. He nodded. "How did you get here?"

The boy took another hot swallow before replying in a soft, raspy voice. "I . . . Father brought me here. He left me on the street . . . He left and I was alone, and it rained, and I hid under a roof. I don't know how I got here."

"My son found you last night."

"Where is he?" the child looked around, expecting, with infantile conviction, his savior to suddenly appear.

"He is sleeping. It is late night."

"You're not sleeping," the child observed. The woman laughed. "What is your name, boy?"

"Arkarian. But my father doesn't like it, so he calls me Luc."

"He doesn't like it? Did your mother name you then?" She tilted the cup towards his mouth and he drank.

"Yes, but she died, and they gave me to a church, and the monks took care of me and they told me they found me on their doorstep when I was just days old. But now I'm older, I'm four! And then the monks gave me to mother and father and I lived with them and then father started hitting us."

The child related this with indifference, unperturbed by the abuse so long as it was not immediate. Then he sank back onto the thin pillow, weakened by the strain of the conversation, and closed his bright cerulean eyes with a sleepy smile. The woman looked at him sympathetically, wishing there was a way to alleviate his suffering. She pulled the downy hair back from his sweaty forehead with tenderness.

"Good night, Arkarian."


	3. Chapter III

The woman walked briskly, the child's legs bouncing against her thigh. She brought him into the squat building adjoining the local church and sat him onto a hard wooden bench as she asked for the head friar.

"Father Isidore," she exclaimed as the stocky old man entered the antechamber. He invoked a number of blessings and hosannas before letting her continue.

"My son found this boy two days ago. I feel it is my Christian duty to bring him to you, so that he may be cared for with love and piety," she improvised for effect.

Isidore blinked a couple of times, wondering how to convince her that it was definitely not her Christian duty to burden the church with another orphan. He was not uncharitable, far from it, but he already had more than enough mouths to feed, especially since just months earlier he received a wagonful of children survivors who came from a small village that fell victim to one of the rare and ecumenically inconsequential conflicts on the frontier. The war had come to a shaky, unofficial halt decades ago, but even so, trouble always found a way of transpiring.

"You cannot care for him yourself?" Isidore tried.

"You know I cannot, Father. Adriene and I barely survive as it is."

Isidore dubiously looked at her well-nourished body, but decided to let the matter drop. "How old is he?"

"He says he's four."

Isidore cast a businesslike glance at the tiny figure. He could barely pass for three, underfed and slouched. His face was attractive, however, symmetrical and with a small nose, and that was always a good thing; good-looking children had less trouble getting adopted. He gave the widow a curt nod and stretched out a broad, dry hand to the skinny boy. The child straightened up, shifting his eyes from the cleric to the woman.

"You will stay here, Arkarian. They will care for you."

"Arkarian?"

"Yes, that is his name. Fare well, child," she leaned over and kissed the boy's blond head.

"May God bless you," the friar raised his hand in valediction. "Come, child."

Arkarian followed.


	4. Chapter IV

A wooden dish that contained an insipid-looking substance of unidentifiable color was placed in front of him. He reached out to the middle of the wooden table for one of the blackened metal spoons, but other children had already emptied the pile. Retracting his small hand, he lowered his head, shyly looking into the half-filled bowl. A girl about his own age, sitting next to him, burst into tears to the annoyance of the friar who served the food. The man ignored the lament as he finished unloading his tray, but when he reentered the room with bread, an epicurean treat reserved for Sundays, he found he could disregard it no longer.

"Marie," he crouched behind her seat. She turned around, face red and wet. "Why are you crying?"

"I don't want to sit next to him," the girl pointed an accusing finger at the pathetic, motionless child on her side, staring into his untouched gruel. The boy felt his heart flutter in fear, wondering if the girl's antipathy would get him into trouble. He did not dare look her way, though he strained hard to hear the clergyman's quiet reply over the noise of two dozen children eating.

"Why not? Did he do something to you?"

Unable to reply in affirmative, the girl let out an even louder wail, flailing her legs. The friar sighed and rubbed his face. "Would you like to sit somewhere else?"

The girl replied with a nod of fierce alacrity that was utterly unexpected from someone so thoroughly grieved. She took the cleric's outstretched hand and slid off the rough wooden bench, throwing Arkarian an evil, vindictive look. A bit depressed about the fact that the glare went unnoticed by her timid neighbor, she followed the friar to the end of the bench. The boy let out a sigh of relief, when the man returned.

"You didn't do anything to her, did you?" the man looked at him commiseratively. Arkarian raised his head slightly and shook it. "I haven't seen you before. What is your name?"

"Arkarian."

"That's a strange name."

"My mother gave it to me."

"When did you get here?"

"This morning. Today."

"You're not eating," the friar observed.

"I don't have a spoon."

"I'll get you one. Meanwhile, there's bread," the man pointed at the slice lying forgotten next to the boy's bowl.

"Oh." The boy reached out for it, his retracting sleeve revealing sallow bruising. The friar's eyes bulged at the sight, but he said nothing. When he returned, it was with a clean spoon and a thick slice of the best bread he could find in the kitchen. It was one of the only bits of kindness the child would receive in the months to come.


End file.
